


Love is... a concerto in A Major - K622

by merciki



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Musician!Peeta, everlark, music school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:06:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9767417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merciki/pseuds/merciki
Summary: Written for Love In Panem's Valentine Day Challenge.Can Peeta finally find the courage to talk to the beautiful woman bringing her child to the music school every Friday?Of course it's Everlark :)





	

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest thanks to titaniasfics for betaing :)  
> My biggest thanks to akai-echo for the awesome banner (on tumblr)
> 
> And to LoveInPanem's gang - keep the good work, Ladies :)
> 
> The concerto in the title is of course Mozart's concerto for clarinet. Go listen to it if you need a bit of peace of mind and a love mood :)
> 
> Reviews and comments are soooo welcomed :) 
> 
> i'm thegirlfromoverthepond on tumblr :)
> 
> thank you for reading :)

She comes every Friday afternoon, taking the girl with curly hair to her flute lesson.  
Every Friday I watch as she passes before the windows of my class, talking to her daughter, laughing. 

One day in September, I heard her laughter through the now-open windows, and I swear, i’ve never heard music so pure. 

I know it’s pitiful. I know that i shouldn’t be completely infatuated with the mother of one of the kids we teach to, but I can’t help it.

Her husband is the luckiest man alive.

\--  
I feel like I’m a stalker, really.  
She comes twice a week. On Tuesdays evenings, she waits in the corridor while her daughter has practices with one of the orchestras, and she comes back on Fridays.

I seem to always find things to do on the floor she’s waiting on, seeing her sitting by the heater with one of her big books. I can’t help but look at her, while she’s completely immersed in someone’s words, lost into another world, her long hair in a braid on the left side of her neck, exposing the skin on the other side just for my eyes.

She has moles - a constellation of them, like notes on a partition.  
I could play them all night.

\--

Seventeen.  
That’s how many weeks she still has to come and bring her daughter.

Seventeen weeks before the summer holidays.

I have to talk to her or risk not seeing her again - maybe next year, her day of music will change. Or maybe her kid won’t play anymore.

I don’t even know her name.

I am pathetic.

Seventeen weeks.

\--

They want to kill me, I think.  
The board decided the theme of the end of year concert will be “masquerade.” 

And the kids will have to play their instruments with masks before we turn the stage into a giant ball.  
Effie has gone mad, I think. We live in Panem, Virginia, not in fucking Venice, Italy.  
How can the kids play the clarinet or the flute with masks?

\--  
The little girl’s name is Lisbeth Hawthorne. She’s in my group for the concert. She has these grey mesmerizing eyes, the same as her mother, and she’s so full of life. Kind and sweet, too, the picture of the perfect student. She listens and I can hear that she practices her part to improve her skills. 

Her mother comes to pick her up in my class now, every Tuesday at 7:30pm sharp. She’s never late.

Sometimes I wish she would be, soso I could talk to her instead of watching her vanish into the night.

\--

Masquerade it is, then. I can’t believe everyone agreed. Parents signed up and volunteered to help.   
I saw her name on some papers, and I, the loser that I am, picked another place to be. She’s taken, I shouldn’t keep hoping.

But I can’t help myself. Everytime I see her braid in the sun, dark, shiny and beautiful, my heart skips a beat. Or a note. I want to hear her laugh, again and again, a balm on my scars, a song to my soul.

Instead, I write music, over and over again. I cover partitions, want to write symphonies about her - but what fits her best are concertos. And I can’t do better than Mozart.

So I play, pouring my heart for her when she can’t hear me, while she doesn’t have a clue that i’m here, burning of love for her, in the shadows of the music school.

\--

Spring is going to be the death of me also. Not because of the ton of work I have, because of course I volunteered to paint the decorations of the ball, but because of summer dresses.

Who knew these tiny bits of fabric could be a deadly weapon? I saw HER, walking around in a lovely green dress, the straps looping upwards to tie behind the slim column of her neck - it must have a name, but I don’t care - and shows her whole back.  
Her. Whole. Back.

See what I mean here? 

But today is worst.

She’s wearing orange. My orange.

It makes her skin glow and her eyes sparkle. she's not just beautiful or desireable. She's as radiant as the sun.

I’m so screwed.

\--  
I’m glad I volunteered for the decorations - this way I don’t have to deal with parents, and I don’t have to see her with her husband. I know the Hawthorne booked three places for the concert, four if you count Lisbeth - which means she has two kids. I don’t want to make a fool of myself, so I’d rather hide backstage with the students, helping them tune their instruments, or get rid of their stage fright. It keeps my mind away from the rows of the auditorium where she must be, with her husband. As long as I don’t see him, I can pretend he doesn’t exist, right?

Right.

“Mr Mellark?” a voice makes me jump. As I turn, I can see a blonde woman holding Lisbeth by the hand.

“Yes?” I wonder what this woman wants with me.

“i’m Lizzie’s mother. I wanted to thank you for all the fun she had while working for the concert.”

My brains stops. She’s her mother? But… she looks nothing like the woman I see every Friday evening, and it’s not even a question of dyed hair. Her neck, the shape of her nose, her height - everything’s wrong.

“Mr Mellark?” The woman’s voice brings me back to the present, in the backstage of the school’s auditorium, with the woman and her child.

“I’m sorry - I thought the other woman was Lisbeth’s mother… I didn’t realize…”

“The other woman?” Mrs Hawthorne looks at me with a question in her eyes, until I see them clear. “Oh, Katniss? She’s my husband’s sister... She’s offered to help us take Lisbeth to music after she came to last year’s concert….. “ She goes on talking, but my mind has stopped listening.

The woman I see every week is not Lisbeth’s mother.

She’s her aunt.

Her name is Katniss.

Katniss - it sounds like music to my ears. I could play it for hours.

“Mr Mellark?” Mrs Hawthorne speaks again. She must think i’m a lunatic - which isn’t good.   
“Where should Lisbeth go?” she asks again, as I apparently didn't hear her the first time. Or second.

“In the hall - there’s a big sign for the kids.”

“Thank you!”

“Bye Mr Mellark!” Lisbeth says, waving at me.

It leaves me with one problem, though. I have no idea if Katniss will come.

\--

She’s there. I can see her.

Third rank, in the middle, with her phone out to film her niece.

And from the backstage, I can’t keep my eyes off of her.

But she seems to search for someone on the stage, her eyes searching. 

But I have to focus. The next number features the kids of my tiny orchestra, and I’ll have to direct them to Mozart - because why choose something easy, right?

The curtains close, the kids rush to take their places on the stage - just like them, I feel the adrenaline climbing. I know they’ve worked hard on that piece, that they want it to be perfect. I want it to be perfect too, I want them to be proud of what they’ve accomplished . I hear the curtains moving behind me, take a deep breath before letting them start.

All through the piece, though, I can feel eyes on me. It’s strange. I’m not supposed to be looked at, the families are here for the kids, not for me. Still, I feel watched as I direct the little formation in front of me.

It’s strange. I only have one urge, to turn and find if I can notice who is looking at me.

The piece finally ends. I walk to my students and turn, saluting the crowd in front of us, watching the rows of audience.

Here they are.  
Third row. Middle seat.  
Her eyes are locked on mine.  
Grey.  
The color of a cloud on a summer night, when it lingers just before the sun falls down.   
The softness of a pillow.  
The warmth of a fire, on a late afternoon.

She’s looking at me.  
At me.

The curtains close.

\--

I can’t come back until the Masquerade ball has started - my colleagues and I have to take care of the groups of young musicians.

There’s something to be said about Effie. She’s a damn fine organizer. The stage is turned into a dance hall in a matter of minutes - I wonder how she did that on such short notice.

When I’m finally free, i hear the music play, people dancing, or laughing, kids running, chasing one another - while I stare at masks.  
I try to find her.

I need to find her.

I have to talk to her.

But I have no clue if she’s still here. If she’s wearing a mask or not. If she wants to talk to me.

I wander around, making small talk with parents and coworkers alike - I’m not wearing any mask, I don’t want to lose an opportunity if Katniss is there.

If she ever wants to come to me.

I’m in the crowd of people that move around me like the waves of the sea. I try to stay in the same place, searching for a pair of grey eyes, or a long braid - until …

I don’t hear anything anymore. I guess people go on laughing and chatting, or the music continues to play in the background, that the world keeps on moving - I only know I can’t.

I can’t tear my eyes from her lithe form in the shadows of the backstage, where I was standing earlier. There, under the dim light of the single light, she’s radiant. Her eyes shine with thousands of tiny sparkles, lighting her face as if flakes of silver were dropped haphazardly on her skin. 

She’s looking at me, arms crossed on her chest.

Again.

Her lips curve to one side as our eyes lock. I can feel mine do the same.

Maybe the world is still revolving around his axis, I don’t care. 

I don’t look away as I walk towards her. Nothing’s going to stop me now - I feel it deep down inside me, this is my moment. 

She doesn’t move, just letting her arms fall down along her sides.

I can see the pink of her tongue as she wets her lips.

She’s going to kill me, right here, right now. A death I’ll welcome.

I stop a mere inches away from her, close enough to be engulfed in her scent - fresh, like the forest on a Sunday morning. 

“I’m Peeta”. These are the only words I can say - the only ones that come to my mind.

“i’m Katniss.”

“You’re not Lisbeth’s mother.”

“I’m not.”

“I thought you …”

Because apparently, my brains forgot how to make a full sentence despite years on the debate team.

“I always hoped … “ she starts.

We’re both at a loss of words.

She fidgets with her hands, when suddenly everything comes back - the sound of the music, the incessant chitchats of the crowd behind me, the kids running around.

“Want to get out of here?” I ask, hopeful. I want to talk to her in the quiet of the night, when the stars in the sky match the ones in her eyes. I want to brush my hand against hers, feel the warmth of her skin, sense her fingers as they dare to touch mine. I want to know if her hair is as silky as it looks like. Want to taste the balm on her lips. The skin of her back teasing me in that orange sundress.

“Yes” she tells me, holding her hand in front of her, shyly.

I take it.

\---  
I ask her to marry me on Valentine’s Day.

She says yes.


End file.
